


Triptych

by aifeilin



Series: Quadrangles [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-05 03:33:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1803742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aifeilin/pseuds/aifeilin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An affair is never simple. This story looks at three different points of an affair from three different perspectives--the husband, the wife, and the other woman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. August

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is it a surprise to me when he says, in this anonymous room in New York, that he's had an affair? He pronounces the words with regret, with distaste, but there's sadness there too, and I'm not sure what that means, whether the sadness is for me or for her.

_Your head is what I remember that August,_  
 _you were in love with another woman but  
_ _that didn't matter. I was the fury of your bones…_

Anne Sexton

* * *

i.

(We return from a lecture and its subsequent lunch and, quite simply, I am exhausted. I am not good at being the ideal professor's wife in Oxford, but in New York, combined with the August heat and the jetlag, I can barely stay awake. Of course I am proud of my husband but it does get a little wearying.)

'I am going to have a nap,' I say.

'We need to talk,' he tells me at the same moment.

(I turn to look at him; his face is grave. This is serious.)

'What is it?'

'Sit down, please.'

I sit down on the chair at the vanity and look up at him. 'Tell me.'

He does.

* * *

ii.

(Is it a surprise to me when he says, in this anonymous room in New York, that he's had an affair? He pronounces the words with regret, with distaste, but there's sadness there too, and I'm not sure what that means, whether the sadness is for me or for her.

I am not surprised, though if anyone else would have suggested it I would have denied it, would never have thought it of him. But with his words everything falls into place. The messages. The long hours at work. The two movie ticket stubs in his jacket pocket. All these things are the detritus of an affair. I believe him, but it doesn't seem real, his voice devoid of most emotion, in this room at the University Club so lacking in anything to remind me why I married him.

I could leave him right now, walk out of this room and it would be the same, his words and mine absorbed by the awful wall-to-wall carpet and the thick velvet drapes, muffled forever. I could leave and nothing in this room would change.

But what about less anonymous rooms? Our home, our happy home back in England, in another country where I didn't know anything, our home with our beautiful children... he brought that girl, whoever she is, into our home and our bed. Her scent might still linger in the house. He welcomed her in, he claimed her for his as he should not have done.)

* * *

iii.

(He tells me that it happened only once, that he loves me.)

'Who is it?' I ask.

'It's over,' he replies.

(I feel like we're in a Noel Coward play except that we've forgotten how to laugh.)

'Who?' I insist.

(He looks away from me and I know he is thinking of her, she of the bloodstained sheets for which he never gave me a proper explanation. I knew then, when I saw them. It means she was young. It means she did not understand what she did. It means he knew perfectly well.)

'Who? A student, one of your students?'

'No. Not one of my students.'

'Fiona, then.'

'Yes. Yes, it was Fiona.'

(Fiona the well-bred, Fiona with a body unlike mine, slim and slender and with hips not widened from bearing children. Fiona of the clever mind and the beautiful clothes and the one who captured his attention if not his heart.)

'When?'

(I know but I must hear it from him, I must have everything confirmed before I can think this through. He turns to look out the window and the man I married disappears; the set of his shoulders tells me he is trying to face a world without her in it, for she is now lost to him.)

'I did not want to tell you.'

'Then why did you?'

(I want to cry, but I know why he did—someone must have discovered their liaison and confronted him with it.

What can I do? Who can I tell? When will I see her and what will she say? Does she think about him still? Did she consider how it would affect me? Did he? Did he speak of me?

I don't talk to him about books or his work and the minutia of medieval manuscripts and marginalia eludes me.

I should have wondered when he stopped reaching for me in the night, when he took longer showers, when he did the laundry himself. I should have, but I didn't—a wilful blindness, perhaps.)

'Why Fiona?' I ask, though he has answered none of my questions and doesn't respond now.

(How can I continue to look at him with his back turned to me, when he presents this statement and does not tell me what else happened?)

'You must tell me. You cannot leave it like this. What am I supposed to think?'

(He turns back towards me.) What am I supposed to say?

(I haven't ever seen him like this, grief writ clearly across his face. This is not the man I married. He is not who I loved. It makes this easier.)

'Tell me the truth.'

(He sinks down onto the bed, his anger gone, sheer exhaustion in its place.)

'What is the truth?'

'Don't get complicated. Tell me what happened. When? Why Fiona? How long? Why did you tell me?'

'I couldn't live with the guilt.'

(And the last shall be first.)

'So you will have me live with the sorrow?'

'I've been a fool.'

'You should have known better. She is so young. How could she know what she did?'

'You sound like you don't blame her.'

'She did not make me any vows. She did something wrong, yes—she wronged me. But you took something away from her too. You were her first!'

'How did you—?'

'There was blood on the sheets.'

'I am so sorry.'

'Answer the questions.'

'I don't want to hurt you.'

(I laugh bitterly.)

' _Hurt_ me? Do you think you can hurt me worse than you have already? You brought someone else into our bed and told me about it. What else could you say to hurt me? Answer the questions.'

'She—bewitched—me.'

(Drawn-out words as though I'm pulling teeth. Then, easier, quieter—)

'I wanted her. I wanted her so much.'

(Well, they are alike, they are so similar in temperament and personality. They work together, have common interests. Both of them could tell me what this means, that they had a greater likelihood to fall into bed and into love with each other.

I stop thinking there and I go to him, look for him in this man who is a stranger to me. I realize, as I do so, that he is not a stranger to her. This is the man she fell in love with and this man before me loves another woman, not me.

I take his hands as though I can snatch him back from her; he slipped through my fingers and he isn't mine any more. No efforts on my part can change that.

He can't bring himself to look at me.

I drop his hands, gather my purse.)

'Where are you going?'

'Somewhere—anywhere.'

'Will you come back?'

(I pause, looking back at him.)

'I'm not the one who left.'

(I take the key and walk out the door, stepping onto another thick carpet that too must have absorbed its share of secrets.)


	2. Open-Heart Surgery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the evening wears on I have the sense that no other event in my life will make time stand still in such an infuriating fashion; but for the sheer impossibility of it I would swear that my affair with him lasted a much shorter time than this cocktail party.

_And I. I too.  
_ _Quite collected at cocktail parties,  
_ _meanwhile in my head  
_ _I'm undergoing open-heart surgery._

Anne Sexton

* * *

I am involved in a desultory conversation with a visiting scholar about library hours on Sundays when I look up and there they are. My heart stops—a phenomenon I had always believed to be a clichéd exaggeration—and it takes some moments to restart.

'Are you quite all right?' my companion says, and I nod abstractedly, watching them.

They greet the Dean, paying their respects, though it is clear their interest is elsewhere. They do not look in my direction, but I feel their attention directed towards me. I take a sip of wine and turn back to my conversation, though I am once again distracted by a blow against my hip. I look down—his youngest child has run into me and the brown eyes looking up at me are his.

A series of shocks like this cannot be good for my health, I think faintly as his son apologizes diffidently and runs off to join his brother and sister.

'I must refill my glass,' I say, excusing myself abruptly and walking away from them and towards the drinks. I find it incredibly discomfiting to note that there is nothing stronger than wine on offer this evening. Tonight is a night for a good stiff gin and tonic, a panacea that is sadly a scarce commodity.

As the evening wears on I have the sense that no other event in my life will make time stand still in such an infuriating fashion; but for the sheer impossibility of it I would swear that my affair with him lasted a much shorter time than this cocktail party.

We stand about with very full glasses of wine, ignoring each other. We talk to other people, always incredibly aware of where we are in relation to each other. I go to get another glass of wine once I have drained mine; she, standing by the bar, moves seamlessly into another conversation in a different area of the party. It is almost a ballet, and it all seems so perfectly choreographed. There is no need for us to speak at all, or look at each other, or even acknowledge that we know each other.

And yet I want to speak to him. There are things I must say, but I cannot approach him. I know, intellectually at least, that he is not for me, that our affair is over. That does not prevent me from hoping for something more, though I know very well he is not mine.

She must know it too—that he belongs to her. He always has. I only had the loan of him for far too short a time. Is there anything I could say that would change the facts? Even though I want to change what happened, even though I am desperate to have him for my own, nothing would change. And they would not listen, they could not listen, and in any case I cannot tell him here.

Would I be telling her anything she doesn't know? I have no idea what she does know, and I haven't often speculated—I haven't wanted to know—but faced with her here, now, I cannot help but think of it.

When did he tell her of our affair? What did he say—did he tell her the truth? Does she know what passed between us? Does she know that I would give anything to be with him, to bear his children, and sleep next to him every night? She must.

She excuses herself from time to time to check on her children, to reassure herself by wrapping her arms around them, by burying her face in their silky blond hair. It is obvious to me, and to her, what she is doing—she is anchoring herself to the present and what has been her life during this cocktail party where we all feel adrift. I am not lucky enough to have an anchor, nor an excuse to abandon this gathering, even temporarily.

His children are beautiful. They run through the gardens, carefree and innocent, and they remind me of myself when I was young, scrambling and sprinting about the Burren, clambering over the cairns scattered about the countryside. But these children—his children—are city children; they lollop decorously through the parterre, careful not to disturb the gravel lining the pathways, careful to maintain appearances.

I wanted to bear his children, his beautiful children. I never wanted children before I met him. I want to bring forth his sons and daughters, children with our intellect and my auburn hair, children with his warm brown eyes. I want to have a claim to him, a real unbreakable claim, and there is no greater tie than blood.

I never before understood this biological urge, this imperative. I do not want to share him, or what could have been my life with him, and yet—

—and yet he is much older than I, and I could and can see a future without him. It is a deeply upsetting thought... but if I bore his child I would have him still, in some small way he would remain with me.

He has gone from me now. I stand about this cocktail party aching for him.

When the party finally comes to an end, she catches my eye and my heart stops once more. She gives me a half-smile—one that doesn't reach her eyes—and looks away; I catch my breath and hope that this shall never happen again.


	3. As It Has Been Said

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I nod, unable, suddenly, to speak. She stands up and precedes me as we exit the pub, stopping when she reaches the door. When she turns and looks back at me, her profile limned with the golden glow of the lights within the pub, I know.

_As it has been said:_   
_Love and a cough_   
_cannot be concealed._   
_Even a small cough._   
_Even a small love._

Anne Sexton

* * *

It is June and surprisingly warm for England's not-so-sunny climes. My wife has removed herself and the children to France for the summer. It is several weeks since they've gone, and though we speak every day and while I am joining them shortly, I am tired of being alone. I do not manage well by myself. My wife and I were married when we were twenty-two; in that time, despite my career and her desire to spend as much time ignoring her duties as the wife of a professor as possible, we were rarely apart. But I am tired of gallivanting about France in the summer, and I am also tired of the distractions that come from having children. I love them—of course I do—but they are at difficult ages, and with three there is always one who needs something. There are times, increasingly frequent, of late, where I wish my wife and I could go back to the way things were, with little responsibility and much more freedom than we have now. Of course I know that is impossible.

We have been married for thirteen years. What an incomprehensible lifetime is concealed in those words, in that span of time. We have been through so much—many moves, three children, and arguments as well. But we have always had each other.

Thirteen is an unlucky number, and while I have never been very superstitious I have noticed that this year has offered more strains on our relationship than those in the past. Part of this is due to my increasing responsibilities at the college, but this new role cannot explain everything.

My house seems very large and empty without the clatter of my children's feet running up and down the stairs. While I've wanted silence—and have certainly wished for it often in the months I have spent editing my manuscript—I do not know that I want it now. I leave the house and go for a walk through the streets.

I end up at Blackwell's, deeply immersed in their selection of Latin translations. Several happy hours pass before I finally decide on a purchase. Walking to the till, I spot Fiona in the other queue. She comes over to say hello.

'Hello, my dear,' I say, kissing her cheek in greeting. 'What are you doing here?'

'Just picking up an order,' she tells me, 'some books for my dissertation. Why are you here? The term is over.'

'I'm finishing up some work before joining my family in France for the summer.'

'Ah, that's lovely.'

'Are you going anywhere for your holiday?'

'I'll go back to Ireland for a month in August. Otherwise, I think I'll be here.'

'Well, would you like to have dinner some night?' I ask as I pay for my purchase. We move towards the exit, lingering there as we chat.

'That would be grand,' she tells me.

'Lovely. How about tomorrow night?'

'Perfect. Where shall I meet you?'

'Where would you like to go?'

'I don't know—maybe the Eagle and Child?'

'I'll see you there at eight.'

'See you then,' she says, smiling, and I smile back, opening the door for her. One final smile, and then she walks down the street.

I walk home in the opposite direction in a remarkably upbeat mood.

* * *

I'm running very late and she is sitting there waiting for me, drinking a whiskey-and-soda. She looks marvellous, and when she looks up at me and smiles I cannot think of any place I'd rather be.

We laugh and talk through dinner, exchanging stories of our semester. When we order our coffee, she leans back in her chair, thoroughly relaxed.

'Fiona!' someone calls her name from the bar, and she peers over.

'Ah, hello Michael!' she replies, waving. 'It's a grand evening, isn't it?'

'It would be better with a song,' he says. 'Won't you give us a song?'

'What does he mean?' I ask her, and she flushes bright red.

Before she can respond, another man shouts 'Come on, Fiona,' and she blushes again, stands up, and walks up to the bar.

'Just one,' she says, to some applause, and then she begins to sing.

 _My love said to me, 'My mother won't mind_  
And my father won't slight you for your lack of kine.'  
And she stepped away from me and this she did say  
'It will not be long, love, till our wedding day.'

 _She stepped away from me and she moved through the fair_  
And fondly I watched her move here and move there  
She went her way homewards with one star awake  
As swans in the evening moved over the lake.

Her voice is intoxicating—sweet and soft, yet clearly audible over the quieted noise of the pub. It seems that the room is collectively holding its breath to listen to her. I know that I am.

 _The people were saying no two ere were wed_  
But one has a sorrow that's never been said  
And I smiled as she passed with her goods and her gear  
And that was the last that I saw of my dear.

 _I dreamt it last night that my dead love came in_  
So softly she entered her feet made no din  
And she came close beside me and this she did say  
'It would not be long, love, till our wedding day.'

When the song ends the room breaks into applause. I sit there, utterly astonished, as she rejoins me.

'I do apologise,' she says, smiling faintly.

'Please don't,' I tell her. 'That was beautiful.'

'Thank you,' she says sincerely, looking into my eyes. 'Shall we go?'

I nod, unable, suddenly, to speak. She stands up and precedes me as we exit the pub, stopping when she reaches the door. When she turns and looks back at me, her profile limned with the golden glow of the lights within the pub, I know.

_Amor tussisque non celatur._


End file.
